Life in the Aftermath
by MichelleThatGirl
Summary: Set after the events of 8x23 "Sacricife", spoilers up to that episode. Quitting the Trials has taken a terrible toll on Sam. He's in constant pain. Dean takes care of his little brother. Hurt!Sam, Comforting!Dean. Gen.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**  
They were slowly starting to settle into some kind of routine. Dean got up every morning at seven-thirty, took a shower, watched the news while having breakfast, made a few calls, did some research and then went to Sam´s room at around 10, with a tray full of food. This morning was no different. It was exactly one month to the day after Sam had abandoned the Trials. One month after the angels had fallen and Sam had been slumped against the Impala writhing in agony. One month after Dean had gathered him onto the backseat and raced into the night, praying to whomever was still up there that he would stumble upon a hospital. One month after finding said hospital only to be be told that there was no apparent cause for his brother's pain.

Dean banished these distressing thoughts from his mind (for now at least, he knew they'd be back) and opened the door to Sam's room. He no longer knocked, the idea of privacy having become ridiculous to both brothers over the years of sharing motel rooms, and even more so recently. Sam was still asleep. It was a fitful sleep, as had become the new normal since Sam'd stopped the third Trial. He barely got any real rest anymore.

"Sammy?", Dean asked softly, setting the tray down on his brother's nightstand. He gently touched Sam's shoulder. Sam opened bleary eyes, blinking a few times before looking up at his brother.  
"Hey", came his somewhat raspy reply.

The coughing up blood had stopped, Sam's sore throat being the only remnant of that  
particular infliction. It had been replaced however, by something worse. Pain, constant pain.  
The agony Sam had felt that one night had subsided only slightly, leaving him with a constant, terrible reminder of the fact that he haddened finished what he'd started. They'd established it averaged at about an eight on the painscale. And it never went away.

"How're you feeling, Sam?" Dean inquired, already dreading the answer he knew he was bound to get.  
"Not so good."

Sam's _condition_, as Dean mentally called it, for lack of a better term, had brought about something new between the two brothers: total honesty about the extent of their pain. There was no more "I'm fine" or "it's not that bad" or "I'm just tired". Sam was telling Dean everything. Dean had insisted on it from the beginning, and Sam hadn't put up much of a resistance. That fact alone had proven to Dean how necessary this new rule was.  
Dean took a breath, steeling himself, and gently pressed on.

"On a scale of hot sex to a kick in the junk?"

That earned Dean a smile. It was a tiny, wan smile, but boy, did it look amazing to Dean. Sam didn't smile much these days. It seemed like the pain and exertion that had come with quitting the Trials was eroding his sense of mirth. He could no longer stomach being made fun of, even by his brother, even in the loving way Dean had poked fun at him his whole life. Dean recalled an incident two weeks after that fateful night where he had told Sam to get some sleep because he looked like crap. He'd said it with a smile on his face, but he might as well have kicked Sam in the stomach, he looked so deflated.  
"I know, Dean", Sam had mumbled, his eyes filling. "I feel like crap too." And then Sam had cried, only stopping after Dean had apologized profusely and explained that he'd meant no harm. So no, Dean didn't say that kind of stuff anymore. His method of dealing with Sam when he was unwell had always consisted of two main components: gruffness and gentleness. The gruffness had been eliminated now. Dean was only ever gentle with his little brother these days. Sam required it. It was as if the Trials had left him open like a wound, sensitive to the touch and oozing emotion rather than blood. Dean had to be a soft bandage to this wound, because anything else would feel like sandpaper to the painfully exposed fragility that now consumed Sam.

"Kick in the junk. A hard one." Dean had expected this answer, but it still wasn't any fun to hear.  
"Crap, I'm sorry Sam. You want a painkiller?"  
"No thanks, already took one. Should wait atleast another hour."  
"Okay... How 'bout some breakfast?" Dean gestured towards the tray, which today was filled with a bowl of oatmeal, a fruit salad and a glass of orange juice. Dean tried to make Sam something different and healthy everyday.  
"Looks good Dean. Can I have the oatmeal first please?"  
"Sure Sammy."

Dean grabbed Sam's second pillow and stuffed it behind Sam's back as his brother leaned forward. As he gently pushed Sam back into the pillows he tried not to notice how thin his biceps had become, not to mention how Sam was shivering. That was part of their new normal: Sam's frame was constantly racked with shivers. Sometimes he was cold or scared, sometimes he was trembling because he was in such intense pain his body couldn't contain it.  
Today seemed like one of those latter times. Sam was now leaning back against two pillows, closing his eyes for a second, put out just by the simple motion of sitting up. He was seeing stars.

"Hey, you okay there buddy?"  
"Just a bit dizzy. My head hurts. Fine, though."  
"Okay... How do you want to do this?" Dean had picked up the bowl of oatmeal and the spoon, holding both with an air of uncertainty.  
The implied meaning of his question was: are you going to eat this yourself? Or do you need me to feed you?

The day after Dean had taken Sam home from the hospital, he had woken up at around noon. His stomach had been growling in his sleep, which Dean had taken as a great sign. His hope had soon been dashed, however, when Sam woke up.  
Dean had been keeping vigil by his bed, waiting for this moment for over six hours.  
When Sam finally opened his eyes, they were wide and filled with tears. His breaths came hard and ragged.  
Dean's heart clenched at the sight of his little brother, ghostly pale (that still hadn't changed a month later) and obviously in pain. He went to sit on the edge of the bed, laid a hand on Sam's shoulder, feeling it tremble, mistaking it for fear.  
"Sammy, are you alright? I'm here Sam, it's okay. You're safe."  
"Dean."  
"Yeah Sammy, it's me, you're good. We're back in the bunker, remember? You, uh, you seemed hungry. I made you some breakfast."  
Sam took some time to take this information in, his breath slowing somewhat.  
"Yeah, yeah I guess I am pretty hungry... What did you make?"  
"Scrambled eggs and bacon on toast. Breakfast of champions. And then after we fill that stomach of yours, we'll get you some of that Vicodin the nice doctor gave you. "  
"Sounds great Dean, thanks."  
Dean had helped Sam sit up, doing the now-familiar trick with the pillows.  
Then Dean had picked up the plate, and the knife and fork from his little tray and set them onto Sam's lap, ready to be eaten. He'd only realized his mistake when Sam went to pick up the fork and dropped it immedeatly. His little brother had tried to pick it up again -and a third time- but his hands were shaking too violently.  
"I'm sorry Dean. It's just... It hurts."  
He had looked up at Dean and Dean had known. Sam had used his puppy eyes on Dean on purpose before, trying to manipulate him. It sometimes angered Dean, but that day he had wished this was another put-on. But it wasn't. This was real, open despair and pain in his baby brother's eyes. He was near tears and trembling with pain and he was unable to hold his own fork.  
Sam had let Dean feed him that day, for the first time in twenty-odd years.

"I think I'm alright."  
"Okay Sam, here you go."  
Sam took the bowl and spoon and slowly started eating.  
Dean was feeling a relief that he was pretty sure few people had ever felt at the sight of their adult brother eating breakfast on his own.  
He reached over and -ever so gently- ruffled Sam's hair.

"Eat up, little brother."


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's note__: I'm completely overwhelmed by the support this fic has already received. It's my very first attempt at writing fic and I couldn't be more pleased by all of your reactions. Thank you for reading and an extra big thank you to anyone who started following this story or favorited it and to anyone who took the time to review. This chapter is for you!_

**Chapter 2**  
Most days now, Sam didn't get out of bed unless it was to go to the toilet. Every other day Dean would help him into the shower or the bath and that was pretty much it.  
Some days, however, Sam's pain and exhaustion let up enough to allow him to go into the living room and sit and watch TV with Dean. Those were good days, that filled both brothers with gratitude.

Today was one of the good days. It was sometime around noon and Sam was snuggled up on the couch watching TV as Dean was cooking up lunch: tomato soup with meatballs and those little pasta letters Sam used to love as a kid. They would be having a rare guest over that day: Garth. The odd little hunter had been checking in over the phone every couple of days and today, about nine weeks after the angels had fallen, Sam had decided it was a good idea to have him come over for lunch. He was feeling reasonably good, which meant that his pain was not the fierce burning, stabbing, throbbing, roaring beast it usually was, but rather a persistent, dull ache, pacing up and down his body like a zoo tiger. The Vicodin was doing a good job.  
That was the main reason that Garth had been invited over: the Vicodin. It had been Garth who had called in a favor from a doctor he knew (his "special ladydoctor friend", he had called her, whatever that was supposed to mean) to get Sam a seemingly unlimited prescription for Vicodin and a host of other painkillers. Nothing seemed to do the trick completely, nothing could quite do away with every bit of Sam's pain, but it could certainly take the edge off.  
And for that, Sam figured, they owed Garth at least a thank you and a homemade lunch.

"Are you sure about this, Sammy?" Dean asked for for felt like the hundredth time that morning, "'Cause I can still call the whole thing off. I'm sure Garth would understand."  
"Yeah, Dean, I'm sure. I'm actually feeling pretty okay today."  
Dean nodded, stirring his soup.  
"You look a bit better, too."

This was not entirely true. Sam looked just as he had for quite a while: too thin, too pale, too tired. But maybe, just maybe, some color was starting to return to his cheeks. Or wasn't it? Dean wasn't sure Sam was making any progress at all.  
For six weeks now, they had been going through the motions. Sam was sleeping over twelve hours a night, not doing much of anything. Dean was taking care of him, nursing him. But he had no clue whether he was nursing him back to health.  
In his downtime, when he wasn't cooking or cleaning or getting groceries or changing Sam's sheets, Dean was doing research. He was reading anything the Men of Letters had gathered about breaking supernatural contracts or curing supernatural diseases. So far, no miracle fix had presented itself. All he could find was what he already knew: that going back on a deal with a higher power was a bad idea. No, duh.  
Dean knew he should probably be doing research on the angels, running point with other hunters and trying to contact Cas. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. Not with Sam this ill. Screw the angels, screw everything else. He needed to take care of his brother.

The sound of the doorbell snapped Dean out of his reverie. He turned the pit of the stove down low, put a lid on his pan of soup and started making his way to the front door. He looked at the security images on the kitchen monitor, saw Garth waving at him and grinned quietly to himself. He was actually pretty glad to see that skinny weirdo again. He'd really done them a solid. And Sam was having a good day. All in all, this was going pretty well.

"Hiya Dean!" Garth threw his arms around Dean, hugging him.  
"Hey Garth, good to see ya." Dean patted Garth's back somewhat awkwardly, smiling to himself.  
"So, how's Sam doing?", Garth asked somewhat solemnly.  
"Pretty much the same. Bit better today though, the Vicodin's really helping."  
"Good, glad to hear it." Garth smiled and followed Dean into the living room.

"Sammy, look who's here", Dean made a grand arm gesture towards their visitor, as if presenting him to Sam like a bunny from a hat.  
"Hey Garth, how are you?"

The past few weeks had been pretty bad all around, not just for the Winchesters, but for Garth too. He'd been doing what Dean was unwilling and Sam was unable to do: trying to make sense of the whole angel shebang. So far, he'd made an estimate of how many angels had fallen: around 3000 according to his latest data. He'd also found out, through some of his hunter contacts, that at least a percentage of these angels had retained some of their powers. They were out burning down fields and causing small-scale mayhem all over the country, and probably the globe. So Garth had been putting out fires, both literally and figuratively. So far, no miracle fix had presented itself. All he'd found out what he already knew: that having thousand of fallen angels around was bad business. No, duh.  
And then there was Sam. After Dean had updated him on the Trials situation, Garth had supplied him with medicine, but that seemed painfully insufficient. He wanted to help, to really make him better, so he stayed up late doing additional research about healing spells and herbs and what not. So far, no dice.  
"Pretty good Sam, how're you? No please- don't get up!" Garth rushed to add that last bit as Sam was starting to push himself up from the couch on shaky arms.

"It's fine Garth." Sam said, walking somewhat unsteadily towards Garth. He pulled the skinny man in for a hug, which Garth answered carefully.  
"Thanks man, for the pills. Don't know what we would've done without you."  
"Yeah, my plan was to knock over a couple of pharmacies, but I doubt that would've worked on the long term." Dean joined in.  
"It's no biggie, dudes."

They sat down at the table Dean had set earlier, and Dean started ladling out the soup. It smelled great and tasted even better.

Later that night (Garth had long since gone home and Sam had gone to bed) Dean went to his little brother's bedroom to check on him. The door was open, as it usually was these days.

As soon as Dean stepped across the threshold into the darkened room, he sensed something was wrong.  
He heard a whimper coming from Sam's bed. It was followed by a sob.  
Dean was at Sam's side in a heartbeat, squatting down next to to his brother's prone form.  
He laid a hand on his back.  
"Sammy, what's wrong? You in pain?"  
Sam turned over, his face a mess of sweat and tears.  
"Dean..."  
Everything was in that one word, whispered more than spoken.  
"Pill?"  
"I'm- I'm maxed... I'm maxed out." Sam's voice shook. Dean's heart sunk.  
"Aw, Sam..."  
"Dean, can you... Can you..."  
"What is it Sammy, what do you need?" Dean couldn't keep the desperation he felt from his tone, no matter how hard he was trying. The answer came in a soft, broken voice.  
"Can you hold me, please? Please."

If Dean's heart had sunk earlier, it was plummeting now. Here was an adult, a tall, strapping young man who was supposed to be in his prime. Here was his brave little brother, who had saved the world, who had hunted so many evil bastards they'd both lost count, who had beaten out Lucifer himself and who, through it all, had somehow retained his kindness. And he was in so much pain that he was begging his big brother to hold him.  
And damn it all to hell, this was supposed to be a good day.  
Dean walked to the right of Sam's bed and got into it, slipping beneath the covers. He layed down on his back. Immediately Sam turned onto his side, facing Dean, laying his head on Dean's chest and clutching at his shirt. Dean put his right arm around Sam's shivering shoulders and used his left hand to slowly stroke his hair. Sam kept his eyes screwed shut (Dean was somehow grateful for this, afraid as he was of the agony he would otherwise see in his baby brother's eyes) but tears were still pushing their way out through closed lids.

Dean's mind was racing. What was he supposed to do? Sam was maxed out on painkillers. What was he supposed to do? No hospital could help Sam. What was he supposed to do? Prayer would be useless to Sam, considering the state Heaven was currently in. What was he supposed to do? What was he supposed to do? What was he supposed to do? What was he supposed to do? WHAT THE HELL WAS HE SUPPOSED TO DO?  
Dean did the only thing he could do. He held his little brother tight and began telling him a story.

"You know Sammy, when you were three years old..."


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's note:__ Once again, a great big thank you for everyone reading, favoriting, following, setting alerts and/or reviewing. It really means a lot. This chapter is writting slightly from more Sam's POV than the last two. I hope you enjoy!_

**Chapter 3**  
Sam was well-aware of the fact that he wasn't improving. The pain wasn't subsiding, nor was the exhaustion. He was starting to lose hope. He was starting to feel hollowed out. It was two weeks ago now that Dean had been forced to climb into his bed and physically hold him together. It was two weeks ago that he had asked, no, begged Dean to do that for him. It wasn't embarrassment that Sam felt when he thought of that night, or at least not _just_ embarrassment. He knew Dean loved him, he knew Dean would do anything for him and that that incident hadn't made his brother think any less of him. What's more, he really appreciated what his older brother had done for him. So no, he wasn't embarrassed. What Sam felt when he thought about that night was fear. He was afraid that this was going to be the status quo. That things would be like this forever. That _he_ would be like this forever. That he was going to need Dean to not only play nurse but to be his security blanket, personal chef and maid as well. Sure, Dean would do that and more and do so without complaint, but Sam wasn't sure he could ask that of him if his condition became more permanent. In fact, he was starting to be pretty sure that he couldn't.

That night, laying in his bed about an hour after finishing the delicious dinner Dean had prepared (chicken caesar salad, an old favorite of Sam's; even the dressing had been homemade), Sam made a decision.  
"Dean?" Sam called out through his open bedroom door.  
"Yeah?" Dean answered, showing up only seconds later.  
"Can I talk to you for a minute?" Sam asked.  
"Sure, what is it?"  
"I think you should sit"  
Sam gestured towards the chair at his bedside.

Dean had gotten that chair from the living room and put it there ten days after Sam had gotten home from the hospital. That was when it had become clear to Dean that he would be spending a lot of time in Sam's room: eating, talking, keeping watch after he went to sleep. Sam had been touched by the gesture at the time: he'd thought it was a nice moment. Now he saw it for what it really was: Dean had realized that Sam was going to be in incapacitated for longer than he'd initially thought. He understood that sitting on the edge of his bed or on the floor wouldn't be practical in the long run. It had been a moment of disillusion, maybe even an admission of defeat.

"Okay... What's up Sam?" Dean was sitting in his chair now, a somewhat wary look on his face.  
"Dean, I've been thinking... I feel like I'm not improving much. Or, not at all. And-"  
"That's not true! You look better and you've been eating more and-" Dean cut in.  
"Can you let me finish, please?"  
"Yeah, sorry"  
"Anyway, I'm not really getting any better. So I figured.. Maybe I should be admitted. To a long term care facility. They have a staff of doctors and nurses and they could-"  
"You're kidding, right? Please tell me you're kidding right now. Because I've been busting my ass taking care of you-"  
"That's exactly the point, Dean! You're running yourself ragged taking care of me! Three meals a day delivered to me in bed. Helping me go to the bathroom. Giving me my pills. You shouldn't have to do that. You're not my nurse, Dean."  
"You're damn right I'm not your nurse. I'm your_ brother_. And that means I take care of you. Do you really think I'd ship you off to some_ home_?" Dean spat that last word out as if it were poisonous.  
"You make it sound so awful, Dean. They have really nice places where they have gardens and a chef and even a pool and stuff, and yeah those places are expensive but I already talked to Charlie and she said that she could do some hacking and get me in and we could pick one that's nearby and you could come visit a lot but you wouldn't have to do all this stuff for me Dean! You could have time to yourself. You could have a life again." Sam knew he was rambling, but he had to get this out. Dean didn't respond. He just sat there, ran a hand over his face.

The Dean Winchester face-palm. Sam had seen it before, more times than he'd like in fact. It was gesture Dean made when he was truly upset, truly shaken. These days, he made it a lot, almost always in moments when he thought Sam wasn't watching him.  
A few days ago (Sam wasn't sure when exactly, his days sort of blurred together now) Dean had run his hand over his face just like he was doing now, after he thought Sam had gone to sleep. It had been a bad day and they were both exhausted.  
Through nearly-closed lids Sam had seen him do it and he had realized once again how much his condition was taking out of his brother. Sam was suffering, sure, but Dean was suffering right along with him. It was that night that, after Dean had finally gone to bed, Sam had first texted Charlie to ask her a few financial questions.

Dean still wasn't saying anything. Sam could no longer stomach the silence.  
"Dean, I-" As if Sam's words were his cue to speak, Dean suddenly started talking.  
"Sammy... I could get mad at you for talking to Charlie about this before coming to me. But none of that matters if you don't understand that I would never send you off somewhere instead of taking care of you myself. You talk about me having a life? Sam, my life wouldn't be worth a damn thing without you here. And if that sounds stupid or lame or whatever, I don't care. Because it's true. I've said it once and I'll say it again if I have to: there has never been anything I would put in front of you." Dean's voice was shaking, his eyes were wet. He took a deep breath, attempting to compose himself, and continued.

"If it's any consolation to you, I still have time for other things. I talk to Garth about fallen angel stuff and I help him with research. I do my own research in the library. I check up on Kevin every once in a while. Sometimes I watched some crappy daytime TV or I read. Sometimes, when I'm on my grocery run, I go to Starbucks and have a cup of coffee and talk to the hot barista. And yeah, after that I come back here. And I take care of you. And yeah, it gets hard sometimes. But no matter how crappy it gets, I'll come back. And I'll take care of you. I don't care if it takes another month, another year or a friggin' century. Because I'm your big brother. And because that's what I do. "

Sam had no doubt that Dean meant what he was saying. That Dean would go to the end of the world and back for him if he had to. That Dean would willingly turn himself inside out if it would help him. That Dean wanted, needed to take care of him. He still felt guilty about the ten thousand things Dean did for him, but he knew (had already known before now, why had he even brought this whole thing up?) that Dean wouldn't have it any other way. He knew that, and he loved his brother for it.

Sam reached for Dean's hand. Dean took it into his own, using his other hand to wipe at his eyes.  
"Thank you Dean, seriously."  
"Don't mention it, Sammy. Just... Promise me, no more of this 'putting you into a home'-crap, okay?"

"Okay, promise."


	4. Chapter 4

_Author's note__: Once again, thank you to everyone for reading and giving this story (my first fic!) so much love. I wanted to give you one last update today, because tomorrow I'm going on vacation to a place where I won't be able to get online. I'll be back on the tenth of August and I'll be updating the second I get home, I promise. This chapter is slightly lower on hurt/comfort, digging into a bit of plot instead. I hope you enjoy. Thanks again for reading and please bear with me. _

**Chapter 4**  
It had been nearly a little over three months since the night Sam had quit the Trials and Dean still hadn't found a cure for his pain. So the brothers kept going through the motions: the bad days, the surprisingly not-so-bad days and the really, really bad days. The call came on one of those latter days.

Dean had just spent half an hour cleaning up, after Sam had vomited all over his covers. This was a rare occurrence: Sam didn't usually have that reaction to pain. For a moment, Dean had thought it was food poisoning, that he'd somehow screwed up dinner.  
One glance at his brother's pained expression, however, had told him he couldn't have been more wrong. So Dean had taken Sam from his own room to Dean's (Sam was leaning on Dean so heavily he was practically carrying him) and put him to bed there instead. Then, he'd gotten two Vicodin and made a cup of camomile tea for Sam to wash them down with.  
After he'd made sure that Sam had drained the cup and taken the pills, he went back to his little brother's room to clean up the mess.

Then, just when he was about to go check on Sam again, Dean's phone rang. The display read 'Kevin Tran'.

"Hey Kevin, what's up?", Dean asked, slightly surprised by the call. It was usually him who called Kevin, not the other way around.  
"Dean, I think I found something." Kevin sounded tired, but excited.  
"Like what?"  
"Like, something that could help Sam. You know how I took photocopies of the tablets? Well.. I've been studying them again. I found something. Fineprint, if you will. It explains what happens to a person who doesn't finish the Trials once he's started."  
Dean felt a weight lift ever so slightly of off his chest. Could this be their answer? Then he had dark thought and snapped:  
"Wait, what? How did you not figure this out sooner? I was gonna do the Trials in Sam's place after he did the first one! What if I'd made him quit?"  
"Then he'd be in the exact same place where he is now, Dean. Look, I was strung out on pills, I wasn't sleeping, I was barely eating and oh yeah, my mom and my girlfriend had just been killed. I was studying the damn thing day and night and I missed some stuff. It was hidden away pretty carefully. I'm sorry I'm not perfect at this, Dean."  
"Yeah, whatever. What did you find?", Dean pressed on.  
"A bit about punishment. Apparently, God didn't like the thought of someone beginning the Trials, but not finishing them. I guess He thought it made it too easy for someone to chicken out. Like, try the first one and then quit if they got scared by how hard it-"  
"But that's not what Sam did! He was about to finish the third one when I stopped him. He didn't chicken out!"  
"Dean, I'm not saying Sam deserves this. Obviously I don't think that, otherwise I wouldn't be up at this hour searching for a cure. This is just what the tablet says. It's not like I'm the one who wrote it." Kevin was starting to feel a little angry and a lot defensive. Here he was, trying to help the Winchesters out, and this was what he got in return?  
"Right. I overreacted, sorry Kev. It's just... I'm wound pretty tightly these days. Sam's not doin well at all and I guess it's... It just really sucks seeing him this way. But I shouldn't be taking it out on you." Dean sounded tired and sad and Kevin decided not to push it.  
"It's fine, Dean." Kevin sighed, looking around his tiny apartment: the walls, blank safe for the bright orange angel and demon warding, the cot in the corner, the crappy little kitchenette.

The day the angels had fallen, Kevin had given Dean a call from the hospital. He'd filled Kevin in on what little he knew about what was happening and had told him to stay put until he could get back to the bunker. However, Dean did say it could take a while, because Sam wasn't doing so well. Kevin had wanted to ask Dean a million questions, but after he'd said that, he had thought better of it. There would be very little on Dean's mind besides Sam in that moment. So instead, he had waited for the Winchesters to come home.  
And come home they did. After Sam had checked out of the hospital against medical advise, Dean had taken him straight back to the bunker and put him to bed right away, barely sparing Kevin a look.  
It was only after Sam had gone to sleep that Dean had come into the control room to talk to Kevin by the glare of the red lights were still burning brightly all over the map and the control panels. Together, they had come up with Kevin's new living arrangements. At first, Dean had offered to let Kevin stay in the bunker, but he could tell that Dean's heart wasn't in it, that he was only saying it out of a sense of obligation. Kevin had known that Sam would be Dean's first priority, and besides, he didn't really feel like staying. Garth's boat had been compromised, so that was out. Instead, Dean had called in a few favors and pretty soon, Kevin had been set up in a tiny little apartment in a tiny little town in Illinois.  
After the move, Dean started calling Kevin about one every two weeks, filling him in on the angel stuff and occasionally, on what was going on with Sam. There was rarely any good news on either subject and after a while Kevin had started going back to his research. He'd done so partially because he wanted to help, partially because he didn't have much else to do. He hadn't found anything useful, until today.

"So, what does it say, exactly?" Dean's voice brought Kevin back to the present.  
"It doesn't go into details. It's just this one paragraph that puts the punishment of the one who abandons the Trials into the hands of an enforcer. He's the guy that gets to judge the guy who quits and he gets to pick what his punishment will be."  
"Who is it?"  
"The angel who God trusted enough to let him take down the word. It's-"  
"Metatron. Metatron is doing all of this? God, all this time I've been looking for a cure when really what I should have been doing is hunt that pudgy little bastard down." Dean suddenly sounded fired up, ready for a fight.  
"Yeah, it's him Dean. But how would you find him, he could be anywhere!"  
"Oh I'm gonna find him and I'm gonna make him stop doing this to Sam if it's the last thing I do. Does the tablet say anything else important?"  
"No, that's pretty much it, far as I can see."  
"Okay, thanks Kevin. I gotta go check on Sam now. But seriously, good work."  
Dean hung up. Kevin put down his phone and finished his somewhat stale sandwich.

The cogs were already starting to turn inside Dean's head. He would dig up their old research on Metatron and find out everything there was to know about the bastard. Then he would find him and get him to reverse the punishment and then Sam would be fine again. But that was exactly the problem. Sam wasn't fine, far from it. There was no way Sam could come with him on this hunt, but there was also no way that Dean could (or would) leave him on his own. It was a dilemma Dean failed to find a way out of. It would have to wait anyway, because Sam was calling for him.

"Hey, Sammy." Dean squatted down next to Sam, who was still laying in his bed, looking pale but a lot less green than he had earlier.  
"Hey. I'm sorry."  
"For what, Sam?" Dean was genuinely surprised by his brother's words.  
"Throwing up all over the place. Making you put me in your bed. Making you clean up my puke. I'm really sorry."  
"Come on, we've talked about this. You got nothing to be sorry for. You can sleep here tonight, I'll take your bed. I've already changed the sheets."  
"Thanks, Dean."  
"No worries, Sam."  
"Who was that on the phone just now?"  
"Kevin."  
"What's up with him?"

Dean had to think fast. Should he tell Sam what Kevin had just told him? Sure, it would probably give him some hope, but until Dean figured out a way to actually _go after_ Metatron, it would be false hope. What's more, if Dean told Sam about Metatron, he would probably want to help Dean find him, despite not being able to. Dean knew his brother: he would feel guilty as hell if he couldn't help him out. Hell, Sam was feeling guilty right now, for having thrown up out of sheer agony. Knowing that Dean was looking for Metatron and he couldn't do anything to help would be really hard on Sam and that was the last thing his little brother needed right now.  
On the other hand, Dean didn't want to lie to Sam. Sam was going through a lot and he would probably find out at some point and be really upset that Dean lied to him.

Damned if you do, damned if you don't. Dean mulled this over for a quick moment, then spoke.

"Not much, he was just checking in."


	5. Chapter 5

_Author's note:__ I'm finally back! I found a spot with internet so I decided to upload a new chapter. My vacation afforded me plenty of time to write, so I'll be updating again soon. Once again: thanks for reading!  
As a side note: the book mentioned in this chapter is _Specimen Days_ by Michael Cunningham, which is a great read I don't own, nor get paid to promote, I promise._

**Chapter 5**  
Research had always been more Sam's specialty than Dean's. Dean managed just fine, but Sam was the expert. Sam color-coded the pertinent pages of thick tomes, sorted neatly cut-out newspaper articles into orderly folders and precisely circled symbols that stood out to him.  
Dean read books and read articles, scribbling notes in the margins that even he himself would sometimes fail to decipher upon attempt. And yet, he managed.  
He had to: Sam was in no shape to do any research. Besides, Dean still hadn't told Sam he was searching for Metatron.  
So Dean was managing on his own. For example, he'd managed to find out pretty much all there was to know about Metatron. Most of this was old news: he was the Almighty Scribe, he took down the Lord's word, he liked to read, but also: that he was one of the few people mentioned in the Bible who had gone straight up to Heaven without dying first. All of this was interesting and might very well prove useful in the long run, but it wasn't really the kind of practical information Dean was looking for right now.  
What he needed to know was where Metatron might be hanging out. And: how he could be stopped. It really wasn't relevant that Metatron liked stories.

Metatron liked stories. He had always liked reading them and recently, he found he also liked being a part of them. With the Winchester boys, he got to have both. After taking Castiel's grace, Metatron had retreated to a hideout, a luxury hotel suite with a view of a gorgeous valley. From there he had watched his Heavenly Fireworks, as he lovingly called the thousands of angels hurtling towards Earth's surface. In the weeks directly after the Fireworks, the weeks during which he had first started carrying out Sam Winchester's punishment, Metatron had taken to reading a type of story he'd rarely read before: news stories. He was fascinated by what the humans were making of his work. Terrorism, he read. Plane crashes, meteors, nuclear testing, extra-terrestrials... And then nothing. The Fireworks went from being first page news to being shuffled onto the third page to being as good as forgotten. There were uprisings in the Middle East, protests in Russia and of course the all-important celebrities who just wouldn't stop dating and breaking up with eachother.  
At this point, about fourteen weeks since the Fireworks, everyone was just trying to forget that they had ever happened. And they were succeeding. Metatron could have been angry. He would have been angry about being so easily banished from the collective memory, if he wasn't so sure that soon, he would bring about something really, truly memorable. For that, however, he needed the Winchesters' help. And he knew just how to get it.

"Sammy?"  
"Yeah?"  
Dean had just entered Sam's room. He had hit a dead end with his research and he felt like doing something nice for his brother instead. Sam was sitting up in bed, reading something called _Specimen Days_. Sam had been reading the same book for weeks, which was very much unlike him. Sure, the book was pretty thick, but under normal conditions Sam would have been able to finish it within a few days. However, they weren't under normal conditions. Sam's pain made it hard for him to focus on the story, his exhaustion made a battle to keep his eyes from glazing over.  
Dean saw his urge to nonetheless keep reading as a testament to his little brother's tenacity. It made his chest -usually tight with worry, these days- swell with pride.  
"I've got an idea. You haven't been out of the bunker since we got back here. I was thinking, maybe you could come with me on a grocery run. We could stop by the library after. Maybe the fresh air'll do you good."  
"I don't know Dean, would it be safe for me to be out there?"  
"I called Garth and he thinks it'd be fine: without Crowley around, things have been pretty quiet on the demon front. Cut the head of a snake, and all that. Besides, it's the same run I've been making for months now. I can't see how it would be a problem."  
And besides, Dean added mentally, do you really think I would let you out of here if I had any reason to doubt your safety? Since he'd had the idea of taking Sam outside (ten days ago now) he had called Garth for information four times, located three hideouts in town that he could take Sam to if things turned sour, scoured local newspapers for any signs of trouble, made new angel and demon warding amulets for the both of them. Also, he currently had an angel blade tucked in the back of his pants and a revolver in his jacket pocket.

"Okay, I guess..." Sam still looked unsure, but there was also a ghost of a smile on his face. He would like to go outside, it had been way to long.  
"Great, I'll go get the chair."

Dean went in to the hallway to fetch the wheelchair he had gotten from the hospital the day Sam was released. It was actually a pretty nice one that could be folded to fit into the trunk of the Impala. They hadn't used it since the day Sam got home and Dean felt conflicted about using it now. On the one hand, the chair meant that Sam was still incapacitated, on the other hand, it meant that at least he was willing and able to go outside again.  
Dean decidde to take the side of optimism as he wheeled the chair into Sam's room.

Sam was already sitting on the side of the bed, feet on the ground. He was trying to put on his shoes. He was so focused on the task at hand that he didn't even look up when Dean walked in. Sam had already managed to get his both feet into his shoes and was now trying to tie the laces on his left shoe. It was clearly hard for him: his fingers were clumsy, shaking with every movement. Frustration and focus were struggling for the leading position on Sam's face, and for a moment, Dean thought he'd made a mistake in asking Sam to go outside with him. Then, finally, Sam managed to pull the shoelaces into a near-perfect bow.  
Dean let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding as Sam started in on his right shoe.

"Do you want anything to eat or drink before we leave?", Dean asked Sam after he'd finished tying his second set of shoelaces.  
"Ehm... No thanks. I'm fine.", Sam said, looking somewhat startled. It seemed he really hadn't heard his brother coming in.  
Upon seeing the concerned look on Sam's face, Dean felt it was necessary to ask his little brother something.  
"Look Sam, you can get back in bed if you want to. It was just an idea. You don't have to go outside."  
"No, I want to. I want to." Sam repeated that last part in a quiet voice, as if he was trying to convince himself as much as he was trying to convince Dean.  
Dean still wasn't completely sure about this, but he pushed his worries down. Sam wanted to go outside, so he would take him outside. He watched his brother get into the chair, unable to keep from noticing how thin his baby brother was, how shaky his legs, how sickly his complexion, how dull his eyes, how clammy his skin, how-

"Dean, you ready to go?" Dean realized he'd been staring at Sam for an uncomfortable length of time. Now Sam was sat in the chair, looking up at him with an unsure look on his face.

"Yeah, let me just do something about your hair." It was a scraggly mess. Dean was no fashionista himself, but he wasn't about to let Sam go out in public like this. He knew his brother would hate it if people stared at him. He grabbed a comb from his brother's nightstand and moved to the back of Sam's chair. He began carefully untangling the mess that was Sam's overly long locks. He was scared to hurt Sam by pulling on the plethora of knots too hard, but instead of tensing up, Sam seemed to relax under his ministrations, leaning into his hands and letting out a soft sigh of contentment.  
After Dean was done, he pushed Sam out to the car, ready to face the world. Or at least, the vegetable aisle.  
Elsewhere, Metatron was sitting on a _chaise longue_, sipping on a glass of the rather excellent Chablis he had ordered from room service as he perused a book he had just received from eBay. It was entitled _Hello, Cruel World_ and it was part of a series called Supernatural.  
Metatron's task as the Enforcer, as allotted to him by God in his words on the demon Tablet, had given him a unique connection to Sam, that allowed him to carry out his punishment.  
He didn't know where the boys were -they were hidden to him somehow, though he wasn't sure how that was possible- but he was still able to reach Sam, he was still able to make him pay his penance: chronic pain. Metatron knew it wasn't the most elegant of punishments, but he also knew it would be effective. He knew that by now, Dean would probably know that it was him who was messing with Sam. That Dean would probably be frantically searching for him, reading book upon book and calling contact upon contact, trying to locate him. After all, Metatron knew the Winchesters' story. He knew what made them tick.  
Metatron had to get the balance just right. He wanted Dean to find him, of course, but he wanted Dean to find him in a way that'd make the hunter would think he'd done it on his own. Metatron didn't want Dean to know that he wanted to be found. He closed the book, looked at the image of a frowning Dean brandishing a gun that graced the cover. Metatron smiled serenely down at the little image printed on the thick, glossy paper.

"I'll see you soon, Dean."


	6. Chapter 6

_Author's note: The movie mentioned in this chapter is _Catching Fire_, based on the book by Suzanne Collins. Again, not a paid promotion of any kind. Thanks for reading!_

Chapter** 6**  
Metatron was growing impatient. Perhaps he was overestimating Dean, but he had expected the elder Winchester brother to have found him by now. He had created some omens around himself, vaguely but distinctly drawing attention to his general whereabouts. At the same time, he had been upping the ante with Sam, making him worse, so as to get Dean even more motivated to find him. And yet, nothing. His door hadn't been so much as knocked on, let alone kicked down. And frankly, he was disappointed. From the Supernatural stories, Dean had seemed like a hero. A brave man, willing to fight for what he thought was right. He was also supposed to be an amazing hunter, finding the bad guy anywhere through a system of contacts and excellent researching skills.  
Perhaps this was the conundrum: the worse Sam got, the more Dean wanted to find Metatron. But at the same time, if little brother got worse, Dean had less time to spend on tracking him down. So Metatron had two options: easing up on Sam, therefore allowing Dean more free time or turning the screws, to get Dean to work faster. He decided to do both, in chronological order. And as for phase two, Metatron had something extra special in mind.

When Dean got up that morning, he was ready do to some research on Metatron before making Sam's breakfast. He'd woken up an hour early, so he could get some extra work in.  
But as Dean walked into the the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he was stopped dead in his tracks. There, at the kitchen table, flicking through yesterday's paper, drinking a glass of orange juice, was his little brother.

"Morning, Dean." Sam said it in a casual tone, like this wasn't the first time in fourteen weeks he had woken up before Dean. Like this wasn't the first time in equally as long that he had been able to get up and grab himself some juice from the fridge. Like this was anything short of a friggin' miracle.  
"Morning, Sam." Dean tried to make his voice echo Sam's casual tone, but failed miserably. Probably because his breath was catching in his throat at the mere sight of Sam sitting there, looking a hundred times better than he had the day before.

"Pretty weird, huh?" Sam smiled at Dean, who was making his way over to him. Sam got up, spreading his arms for the hug he knew he was about to be pulled in to.  
"Yeah. You can say that again." Dean held his brother close, taking a deep breath. Then he let go, sat down at the table and motioned for Sam to do the same.  
"Sammy, what the hell happened?"  
"Just woke up about ten minutes ago, feeling good. Decided to get something to drink, wait for you to wake up."  
"So... Any idea what happened?"  
"Nope. Just woke up and felt better. That's it."  
"Wow. So, no pain at all?"  
"Some. A one or two. But other then that, I feel great. Clear. Not even tired anymore."  
"Wow."  
"I know. It's pretty crazy."  
"So, what now?"  
"I was thinking breakfast. Then maybe go for a drive?"  
"Are you sure you're feeling better? It's just really out of the blue."  
"Let's not look a gift horse in the mouth here Dean. Look at me." Sam looked at Dean, beaming, smiling a smile that reached his eyes for the first time in far too long.  
"I look bettter, don't I?"  
There was no denying it. Sam really did look better. So, Dean started on breakfast and they started planning their day.

"So, how long do you think this is gonna last?" Dean shot Sam a questioning look from behind the wheel.  
"What, me feeling better? No idea, Dean. I say, let's make the most of it while it does."  
"Maybe we should get you to a hospital. Get your stats checked. See how your blood work's doing." Dean was pretty sure this was going to be a "no thanks", but he felt he had to at least put the idea out there  
"Yeah, going to the hospital's not really my idea of making the most of it, Dean. Let's just do it like we said: library, then lunch, then park, movie theater, dinner and a bar."  
And so they did. They picked out a bunch of new books for Sam to read. Dean even ended up getting a few for himself, though none pertaining to Metatron: he still hadn't told Sam that he was digging into that little bastard again. They they went to lunch at a diner that had an amazing cheese burger for Dean and a great chicken caesar salad for Sam, though Sam told Dean that his version was way tastier- a remark Dean pretended to brush off but secretly relished. With their stomachs full, they hung out on a bench at the park not doing much of anything except lounging in the sun and bantering and generally relaxing before getting their tickets to an afternoon showing of something called _Catching Fire_, which was a sequel to a movie that Dean hadn't seen, but apparently Sam had read the books ("great light reading, nothing too literary but a lot of fun", Sam had called it) and had been wanting to see the movie. Dean didn't really care either way: he was far too happy to see Sam out and about and feeling so much better to worry about something as silly as not understanding the back story to some film.  
If there was something nagging him, telling him this was too good to be true, it was definitely at the very back of his mind.

Metatron could feel that it was working. His connection to Sam allowed him to feel, if only very vaguely, how he was feeling. Just an overall sense, nothing too specific.  
Until today, Sam's energy had been murky. Dark. Miserable. And Metatron had been glad, because that was how it was supposed to be: Sam was being punished, after all. However, today Sam's energy was clear. Bright. Happy. Surely this meant that Sam would be out and about, freeing up Dean's time for more research. Surely Dean would now find the time to read about the insanely violent, out of season thunderstorm Metatron had caused over the local library just a few days earlier. Surely he would read that lightning had struck the place but nothing had been found damaged, all the personnel was unharmed and all the shelves were pristine, but all of the books had gone missing? Surely that would lead him to Metatron, who was in a hotel not five miles from said library?  
Turns out that for all the avenging angel had read about the Winchesters, he still hadn't quite figured them out. Because there they were, in a jam-packed theater, with some cokes, a huge tub of somewhat overpriced popcorn and a bag of licorice (Sam had teased Dean about it, which Dean had loved: he couldn't believe Sam was feeling well enough to mess with him again) between them, safely out of Metatron's reach. The lights switched off, the screen lit up and Sam whispered to Dean:

"You'll like this, it's got a ton of action."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7  
"Dean, what's this?"  
Dean knew something was up the second he heard Sam's tone. And sure enough, when he looked up, he saw that Sam had a folder in his hand. And not just any folder. It was the folder that held Dean's notes on his research about Metatron. The research he hadn't told Sam about. Dean was well and truly screwed. And things had been going so well.  
It had been two days since Sam's apparent miracle recovery, and the brothers had been making the most of things. That meant going for drives in the Impala, shooting -both pool and guns-, going out to dive bars and generally having a good time.  
Dean hadn't abandoned his research completely: a part of him still didn't believe that Sam's recovery would prove to be permanent and besides, just because Sam was feeling better now, that didn't mean Metatron didn't still deserve to get his ass kicked.  
Dean had been meaning to tell his little brother about Metatron being the one causing his pain and about how it was all a punishment for quitting the Trials for a while now, but he hadn't been able find the words. And then Sam had started feeling better and they had been doing all this fun stuff together and Dean just hadn't wanted to ruin that. But here they were. The crap was about to hit the fan.

"Sam, I-" Dean looked up at Sam from his seat the kitchen table. His little brother looked back at him, not showing any signs of wanting to sit down.  
"I know what it is, actually. I just read it. It's a whole file of notes on Metatron. And how it's his job to punish people who quit the Trials." Sam slammed the file down on to the table, a hard look in his eyes.  
"Sam-" Dean tried to cut in, tried to start explaining himself, but Sam wasn't having any of it.  
"I'm guessing Kevin told you this?"  
"Yeah, but-"  
"When?" Sam interrupted again, practically fuming.  
"Sammy, I-"  
"When, Dean?"  
Dean sighed, then took a deep breath, steeling himself.  
"Remember that night when you threw up? And I put you in my bed?"  
"Dean, that was more than two weeks ago! And you told me Kevin had nothing to say!"  
"I know Sam, I'm sorry."  
"It has been killing me, not knowing why all of this happened. Not knowing who was hurting me. It has been eating me _up_. And all this time, you knew. And you didn't tell me. I can't believe-"  
Sam stopped short in the middle of his sentence. For a moment, a far-off look appeared in his eyes. Then they seemed to glaze over. A fearful look descended over them. A visible shudder shook his body.  
"Sammy, what's wrong?" Dean jumped up from his chair, alarmed. When Sam finally answered, his voice was nothing more than a fearful, shaky whisper.  
"He's here. He's back."

In his suite at the Golden Valley Inn, Metatron was sitting on his bed, propped up against the burgundy headboard, eyes closed in utter concentration. He had recently discovered that his connection to Sam allowed him to do more than just sent pain his way. Apparently, God'd had a wider definition of the word "punishment" in mind when he created the Enforcer's tasks for Metatron. In his quest to get the Winchesters to find him, Metatron had tried many times to manipulate Sam into coming out of hiding, to establish telepathic control over the younger Winchester brother. However, his powers as the Enforcer didn't allow that. He did find, however, that he could project images into young Sam's mind.  
And thanks to a little book called _Sam, Interrupted_ by ond Carver Edlund, Metatron knew just which images to pick.

Dean was frozen in place. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. This couldn't be happening. Sam couldn't be talking about-  
"Lucifer, please. Please, no._ Nononopleasepleasenono_." Sam was walking, no, stumbling backwards. He hit the wall, slid downward until he was sitting and just kept pushing back as if trying to burrow into the cold, hard stone. Eventually he gave up and just sat there, knees pulled up, covering his face with his arms, muttering in a low voice.  
"Sammy?" Dean was walking towards Sam slowly, unsure of how to approach his little brother.  
"Sam, I'm gonna sit down next to you, alright?"  
"Please don't hurt me anymore. Please I'll be good_ please_."  
Dean sat down quietly next to Sam, laid a hand on his little brother's trembling shoulder. Between Sam's arms and his overly long hair, he could barely see his face. But he could hear his words and between those and his brother's broken voice, Dean could barely breathe.  
"Sammy, he's not real." Dean forced the words out, not sure if Sam was listening, if Sam could even hear him. How could this be happening? Castiel had taken Sam's memories from the Cage away. None of this was supposed to happen.  
"Dean?" Sam said it in a small, desperate voice, but Dean was still relieved that he was talking to him again.  
"I'm here Sam. I'm right here."  
"Dean please help me. I'm so scared and it hurts so so much please help me. _Dean_." Sam started sobbing uncontrollably, almost violently, his face still obscured by his arms.  
Dean's heart felt like it had been yanked out through his throat. Sam wasn't talking to him at all. His baby brother thought he was back in the Cage and he was begging for Dean to come save him.

Metatron could feel that it was working. Sam's energy had gone from clear and bright to slightly darker, and now, it was pitch black. It was like a night sky, only without stars. Complete darkness. Pure, unadulterated fear. Finally.  
For months now, Metatron had tried to set a trap for Dean. But for months, Dean hadn't taken the bait, hadn't been able to find him. So Metatron had thought of a two phase plan: first, make Sam better, then, make Sam worse. That ought to wake Dean up.

Dean had no doubt in his mind that Metatron was doing this, that he was somehow screwing with Sam's head. He had to find that sadistic son of a bitch, he had to make him stop.  
Dean put an arm around Sam's shoulders, whispered to his little brother:

"It's gonna be okay, Sam. I promise, I'm gonna fix this."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**  
_Author's note:__ I'm sorry that I've been AWOL. I've been going through some pretty crappy stuff IRL and I haven't had much time to write as a result. To thank you for your patience, I've uploaded two chapters today. Hope you enjoy. Thanks once again for reading, reviewing, following and everything else. _

Frantic. That was the word that best described Dean as he was searching for Metatron. Also: freaked out, desperate, over-caffeinated. Dean looked up from his research for a short moment, listened for any sounds, any signs of trouble from his brother's bedroom. There were none. Just silence.

Three hours ago, Sam had seen Lucifer. But not just that. He had seen the Cage, heard it, smelled it. Felt it. After the muttering had come the begging. And afther that, the screaming, sobbing, trying to escape the bunker, trying to hurt himself. Finally, Sam had wrestled Dean for a pair of kitchen scissors, repeatedly telling him that he couldn't do it anymore, that Lucifer had won, "Fine, you bastard. You said it ends when I can't take it anymore, well I'm done. I can't-"  
Dean had punched his brother in the face, momentarily stunning him. Then, he had taken the scissors from Sam's hand, while simutaneously reaching for something he'd had in his pocket ever since they'd returned from the hospital. It was a plan B Dean had hoped he would never have to deploy. A syringe of a powerful sedative. Dean had reached over and jammed it into Sam's thigh. Lowered his little brother to the ground as he went down. Out like a light.

Searching, searching, searching. Words, words, words. Dead ends, dead ends, dead ends.  
Until, finally, something came up. Things started coming together. Cogs were turning. Puzzle pieces were falling into place.  
A thunderstorm, a library struck by lightning. The whole building was fine, but the books were missing. A writer, fighting a losing battle with lymphoma. Docters were baffled when suddenly, he was completely healthy. A bookstore, close to going bankrupt. The owners won the 15 million dollar jackpot, the store kept going strong. All these things and more had happened in the same two-horse town.  
This wasn't a coincendence. There was just no way. This had Metatron written all over it. Metatron was in Trueville, South Dakota.  
There was only one hotel in Trueville, a five star resort called the Golden Valley Inn. Dean wanted, needed to go there. Right now. But what about Sam?

After knocking Sam out, Dean had put him in a fireman's carry, carried him to his bedroom. Even with all that was happening, he couldn't help but notice how light his brother had become. Dean laid Sam gently down on his bed, took off his boots, changed him from jeans into sweats that wouldn't cut off circulation. Then, dragging his feet despite the urgency of the situation, Dean went to fetch the cuffs for Sam's hands and feet. It was all frightningly familiar.  
As Dean began fastening the first cuff, over Sam's left wrist, memories came flooding back.  
Sam's addiction to demon blood and all the lies that had come with it. Ruby and her sick mindgames. The gruelling hours spent listening to his detoxing little brother's screams as they echoed off the walls of Bobby's panic room. Those had been some of the darkest days of not just Sam's, but Dean's life. And it was happening all over again. Only worse. Because here, there was no panic room, only panic. And worse still: there was no Bobby.

There was no-one for Dean to leave Sam with, no-one that he trusted the way he had trusted Bobby. No-one he trusted so completely, so effortlessly with the most important thing in the world. Castiel was not an option: more than three months had passed and not a peep from him. And to be honest, Dean was still pissed off at him, still hadn't rebuilt his faith in the angel.  
Still, there was no way Dean could bring Sam with him, nor him to leave him by himself in this state. The dilemma that had been merely theoretical two weeks ago, when Dean had first found out about Metatron, had now become a terrifying reality.  
Should Dean stay with Sam then? Should he call Garth and have him handle Metatron in his stead? No. It wasn't fair to expose Garth to an avenging angel. And besides, Dean trusted no-one but himself to gank the bastard. Garth was a good hunter, maybe even a great one, but Dean needed to handle this himself. For Sammy.  
Still, he did need Garth. Bobby was gone, so he would have to settle for 'the new Bobby'.  
Garth had come through for his little brother before and Dean would just have to trust him to do it again.  
Dean got out his phone and dialed the weird, skinny, loyal little hunter's number.

"Dean... What's up?" Garth's tone was distracted, the line crackly, the background noises loud but undistinctive.  
"Garth, I need your help. How far are you from the bunker?"  
"Hold on a sec." There was a shuffling noise, then the sound of a rusty car door being slammed.  
"I'm about an hour out. What is it, Dean? Is this about your brother?" Garth sounded a lot more focused now, not to mention concerned.  
Dean cleared his throat, took a deep breath, fruitlessly attempted to calm his frayed nerves. Finally, he ran a hand over his face and answered the question.  
"Yeah- yeah it is. I need you to watch Sam for me."  
They arranged for Garth to come to the bunker and as soon as he'd hung up, Dean started filling his duffel with everything and anything he might need to take down an angel. After that, he started planning which roads he'd take to Trueville. It was going to be a long drive, but in his mind, Dean was already there, taking Metatron out once and for all.

Meanwhile, at the Golden Valley Inn, Metatron was enjoying an in-room dinner of freshly caught lobster with a velvety butter dressing. Things were going well, he could feel it. Dean would be here soon.  
The television was on, an old 007 movie playing. On screen, the villain was just about to tell James that classic line, as Metatron looked up from his meal. What a great line, how fitting of the situation. Metatron smiled, licked some butter sauce of his fingers, said the words right as they came out of the bad guy's mouth.

"Good evening Mr Bond, I've been expecting you."


End file.
